Where the large oak grows
by cedarrapidsgirl78
Summary: A missing scene from His Last Vow set from Sherlock's POV after the shooting at Magnussen's house up til the last scene at the airport. So if it seems to end abruptly that's why.


Sherlock Holmes stared at the four white walls that had become his new home. He'd been here for going on four days now, if he could trust the guard at his door that it really was the 27th when he'd asked two nights ago. Sherlock had been sedated not long after all the chaos at Magnussen's house, and he woke up here.

It was a cell, obviously. It had one small window in the top of one wall, with bars on the inside and outside. A heavy white iron door was the only entrance, with a slot in the middle for bringing food or other sundries.

It wasn't a typical cell though. He had more comforts of home than most, he imaged. Someone had brought him his casual clothes only, his violin, and a stack of notebooks and pencils. There was a toilet and sink in the corner, but no table or chair. Sherlock got parts of the paper passed to him with his tea and meals, although he only ate enough to keep him from going hypoglycemic. What was the point anyway? Sherlock knew he'd be dead within a month. But it wasn't going to be here. He wouldn't do that to John, or give anyone else the satisfaction either.

Sherlock knew that most of it was for show, that they were keeping a cold blooded murderer locked up. Most that knew Sherlock well knew he could have picked the lock and disarmed a guard faster than most people could pull up their trousers in the morning. But Sherlock wasn't going anywhere, and once again, those that really knew Sherlock knew that.

For Sherlock to escape his cell would be illogical. They'd catch him anyway, and besides, Sherlock already knew what his fate would be. He'd might as well go out on his own terms, rather than a trigger happy prison guard. Sherlock didn't know exactly how things were going to work, but he's pretty sure Mycroft was working his magic somewhere. He was expecting a visit from his "dear brother" sooner rather than later.

Sherlock sighed as he looked up out the window at the patch of blue sky. Around one in the afternoon, if the sun was anything to go by. There were no electronics around, and there was only an overhead light that gave off a meager source of light in the evening. He'd wish they'd hurry up and deal with him. Better to get the inevitable over with. The public would be asking too many questions soon. He imagined it was a PR nightmare, especially for Mycroft. There was a small twinge in Sherlock's chest as for an instant he felt sorry for the headache he'd caused his brother. But then he pushed it down as he knew there was no other way to save Mary, and by extension, John. Sherlock made his last vow, the only vow, at John and Mary's wedding six month's prior, and there was no way he was going to break it. He would die for real this time to save them.

The door to the cell swung open silently, startling Sherlock from his ruminations. Mycroft walked in with a mug of tea, handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock took a sip from it and waited.

Mycroft got straight to the point. "You've accepted the MI6 offer in eastern Europe. You leave in two days." Sherlock didn't speak, just nodded as he drank the tea. He wondered if that offer would be on the table again. It was that or a huge public debacle. "To appease the public interest, you'll be taken in two hours to plead guilty to conspiracy to steal and sell government secrets, and first degree murder of Magnussen." Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft sighed. "You know why this is happening, Sherlock. I imagine you know the role you need to play? Broken, contrite, resigned.. You know what to do."

"Yes." Sherlock managed to croak out, his voice rusty from disuse. No one's wanted to talk to him in 4 days, there was no point in talking himself mute. "And where am I being sentenced?"

"A maximum security prison in Australia." Sherlock raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Mycroft continued. "Of course you'll be brought back here. And in two days, the 31st, you'll be taken by private aircraft to start your mission." Sherlock still didn't respond, only nodded, and the unspoken emotions in the room suddenly hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks and he could only stare at the floor.

Mycroft broke the silence. "I know you loved that dog, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, and tried to school his face into something unreadable. "Did you want to go and pay your respects one last time?"

"Yes, please. Thank you." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Just us." He got up and went over to the window wall and stared out into space like it was the window in the living room at Baker Street, not a white wall with the actual window a foot above his head.

"I'll arrange it and let you know." Mycroft gestured to the guard who brought in a stack of clothes. "Be ready in two hours." He left Sherlock still staring at the wall.'

Sherlock was ready when the guard opened the door. Non descript grey prison shirt that was too big for him, drawstring prison pants of the same color that were too long for him. Cheap slippers. He wasn't surprised to be shackled at the ankles which were then chained up to his hands cuffed in front of him. It was part of the show, the public wanted to know and see their once beloved Sherlock Holmes reduced to a common prisoner.

Guided to a car, a drive, escorted out again, arrived at some courthouse.. It was all a blur for Sherlock. After four days alone in a cell, being led into the courtroom packed full of people gave Sherlock a minor anxiety attack. Not that anyone could really read him. But all eyes were on him, with his baggy clothes and unkempt hair and a half week's beard. No wonder there were gasps from the crowd.

Sherlock was supposed to keep his eyes and head down, but he couldn't resist a quick glance around as people were getting settled. Mycroft, immaculately dressed and giving a convincing scowl. Mummy and Father next to him, and seeing his mum dab her eyes with a kerchief and his father looking at him with sad eyes and then staring off gave Sherlock a twist in his gut. At least soon they wouldn't have to suffer on his behalf for much longer.

It was who was next to Father that stopped Sherlock cold. John. Just John. He looked uncomfortable and rather put out, Sherlock hoped the press wasn't bothering him and Mary. Probably not, Mycroft would see to that. Of course John would come to this hearing, John probably thinks it's the last time he'll ever see Sherlock again. John with his jeans and his button up shirts and simple jumpers. Even though Sherlock hopes that John will eventually know and understand why he did what he did, the thought of hurting him again plants itself in the forefront of his causes a sharp physical pain and he rests his forehead on the table and takes deep breaths to calm himself. He can feel Mycroft staring at him. As the room quiets, Sherlock raises his head and sets his chin in strength. But the tears brimming at his eyes is not an act. They spill over quietly and no one cares as the Judge is announced and Sherlock is hauled to his feet.

The hearing passes in a blur and he says 'yes' and 'guilty' and plays his part well. It is over quickly and Sherlock is once again escorted and pushed into a car alone. He does not get the chance to look over at anyone again. Back to his cell, he is unchained and the door slammed shut. Sherlock numbly changes back into his familiar, comfortable clothes, pushing the prison garb as far into the opposite corner as he can. He gets in his bed, covers up and lays there facing the wall for hours before he finally falls asleep.

The cell door bringing a draft and the assault of breakfast wakes Sherlock the next morning. It's guard number whatever, with a tray of food and a paper bag. "Barber in an hour. Be ready." The guard leaves and Sherlock eats without tasting. He dresses by rote and cleans up as best he can, even washing his hair in the small sink. Soon the barber comes in and works his magic, and when in conclusion he is handed a small mirror, he finally gets a good look at himself. He could almost pass as normal, he thinks. As the barber cleans up, the guard comes back and takes Sherlock down the hall and out to a waiting car. How different of a scene from yesterday, Sherlock thinks. No handcuffs or shackles, and today it is a suit and dress shirt, and somehow even his Belstaff got procured for the occasion.

Mycroft glances at Sherlock but doesn't speak as he gets in the car. They ride in silence until they reach their parents' home. Sherlock buttoned his coat around himself as they walk to the back of the house, and stop under a large oak tree. There is silence for a while, then Mycroft pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket and hands them to Sherlock. He gets out his own set and they smoke and reflect.

"They left this morning." Mycroft says."I managed to convince them that a last minute trip to Italy would be good start to the new year, and to get away from all that's happened lately."

Sherlock nodded and took a drag on his cigarette. He didn't want to see his parents. Too much emotion. As it was Sherlock was going to reveal things he'd never told anyone. He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one. What difference did it make if he chain smoked? He would be dead sooner than later anyway, he might as well enjoy it. Sherlock looked back at the house, his parents' house, his family home. Was it really just five days ago, on Christmas, that everything changed. He knew when he got up Christmas morning that his plan would be put into action, but he did not predict this. Any of this.

Sherlock turned back to the tree and kicked at one of the roots that made its way above ground. He remembered the day that his father had dug the hole for Redbeard. Sherlock cried and cried as Mycroft looked stoically on. Always the big brother. After the body was laid to rest, his father went in the house and left the two boys alone, Sherlock finally confronted his brother. "Don't you even care? You haven't shed a single tear for him!"

Young Mycroft had even then knew what to say and to do it succinctly. "I do, Sherlock. I really do. You and I are different in expressing our feelings. You are much more expressive than I ever will be. That does not mean I do not feel. It is just processed differently than you."

Coming back to the present, Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, who had lit another cigarette as well, and was staring off into the horizon. Sherlock took a deep breath. "I just- want to say thank you." Mycroft looks over at him. Sherlock continued before he lost his nerve. "For everything. Over all the years, all the interventions, the favours, the bailing me out…" Sherlock drew a shaky breath and continued as Mycroft just listened. "I just-oh you know, appreciate it." Sherlock was starting to lose control of his emotions, so he stopped talking and tried to muster up his usual bravado. He couldn't look at Mycroft again.

Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and put his hands in his pockets. "Do you remember Sherlock, what I said when you identified Irene Adler's body all those years ago?" Sherlock didn't answer. Of course he did. "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." Mycroft went on. "I also said just the other day that 'the loss of you would break my heart.' And now look where we are. Soon my heart will be heavy with your loss. It's different now because it is finite, unlike when I helped you the last time you left." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock knew this wasn't easy on him either. "You have been a pain in my ass for a very long time, Sherlock. But still.. I'll miss you."

Sherlock looked up from where he'd been staring at the ground. "Thank you, Mycroft. I'll miss you as well."

Sherlock lit another cigarette and used his lighter to light Mycroft's as well. The brothers smoked in silence. As they finished up Mycroft spoke again. "You're leaving today."

Sherlock choked on the smoke. "What? You said two days, that would be tomorrow!" Sherlock was mad. How dare his blood brother that just finished pouring his heart out to, would now decide to take away one of the days of the limited time that he had left.

"It's out of my hands, brother. Despite what you may think, there are still people in the world who make decisions that I have to follow." Sherlock scowled. "Anyway, things are escalating quickly where you're to be sent. We need your help as soon as possible. When we leave here we will go directly to the airport."

Sherlock reeled with emotions. "I need to talk to John. One last time." He had to. He couldn't let the last image of Sherlock that John had to be of his courtroom farce. He needed to say goodbye. Again.

Mycroft nodded. "Since I imagined such an emotional outburst from you in respect to John, him and Mary are already on their way and will meet us there." He turned from the tree and started walking back to the car. He paused and turned back to Sherlock, who hadn't moved. "Take your time, Sherlock." Mycroft then turned and briskly went to the waiting car, not giving Sherlock another glance.

Sherlock tried to calm his thoughts. His plans to get everything in order tonight before his exile had been upended. He said one last mental goodbye to Redbeard, turned and gave his family home one last glance before getting in the car.

It pulled away and Sherlock stared out the window. He'd said his piece to Mycroft, now he had to get it together for John. It was easier, he thought dryly, when it wasn't true up on the roof, through the phone, with John so far away. This time, it would be harder, this wasn't an act. It was the truth, and it would be close up. And Sherlock would have to come up with something to say. To say goodbye to John Watson for real this time.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the private airport was too close for his liking and they arrived within an hour. Mycroft had been glued to his mobile the whole drive, and only put it back in his pocket when the car stopped next to a small private plane. They got out and met the pilot on the runway.

Mycroft pulled out his phone again. "ETA on the Watsons is five minutes." He looked over at Sherlock who said nothing. He'd said all he needed to say to Mycroft. True to his word a black car pulled up not far from where they were standing, and John and Mary got out. Sherlock took a deep breath and steadied himself. He made sure he stored this moment in his mind palace. The last time he would ever talk to John Watson.


End file.
